


Dark Inside

by screengeekdiaries



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Blood, Gen, Hallucinations, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Physical Abuse, Psychological Torture, Triggers, Violence, tw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-03
Updated: 2014-08-11
Packaged: 2018-01-18 02:07:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1411006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/screengeekdiaries/pseuds/screengeekdiaries
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After being kidnapped during a routine hunt, you and Dean Winchester are left locked together in a dungeon. But is it really just the two of you in there?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The scene before you when you manage to prise apart your groggy eyes is quite possibly the last one you wanted to see. Especially since the heavy throbbing radiating from the back of your head was enough to be dealing with right now. Adjusting to the gloom around you, you can see that you’re in some form of dungeon – at the very least, the dankest basement in the history of basements. Bare stonework and pillars occasionally laced with filthy cold chains which, a quick tug at your wrists indicate, you just happened to be tied up with. 

_Man, that must have been one serious clout to the head._

Shaking away the last recesses of unconsciousness, you try to remember what you were doing before that thing – whatever it was – got you. Vague recollections of woods swam into view... werewolves, was it? Or that rougarou? Either way, Sam had gone off with Cas whilst you and Dean...

Wait, Dean!

Twisting around as far as your chains would allow, you frantically scanned the room from top to toe for any sign of your big bro. The only thing you could make out through the dark was the bottom of a pair of jeans and mud-caked boots poking out from behind the bottom of a nearby pillar, lying motionless on the rocky floor. Sending up a silent prayer to whomever may or may not be behind the pearly gates nowadays, you whisper into the unknown.

“Dean?”

For a heart stopping moment, nothing. Not a peep, save the delicate drip-drip of water onto cold, hard stone. Then...

“Urgh, that better not be mouse droppings I’m lying on!”

You released a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding as the older Winchester appeared from behind his resting place. For a moment, he seemed more interested in brushing off any potential dander from his precious jacket until you jangle the chains in protest.

“Errr, little tied up here Dean? Care to, oh I don’t know, get me out?”

Face shooting up to meet yours, his eyes widened in horror as he realised your predicament. _Wow, they must have taken him down just as hard as they did you._

“(Y/N)!” In two strides he was at your side, tugging at the iron chains to find their weakest point.

“Don’t worry, I’ll get you out of here – _hnngh_ – just as soon as – _hgggnhhh_ – these DAMN CHAINS BREAK!” His face was scrunching into such an odd expression from the pure excursion that you’d probably be laughing if the situation wasn’t so dire. _Who knew one man could go that shade of puce?_ Wriggling to test for any loose spots, you notice that the chains are also wrapped around your feet. Dean ducked down to try there as you scan the surroundings for something, anything, to prise them off. Plus, neither of you had been especially quiet with your escape attempts, so it was more than likely that someone was on their way down to sort you both out. 

Looking back down to check Dean’s progress, you suddenly notice a patch of blood seeping through the top of his Henley.

“Dean, you’re hurt!”

Head still ducked in concentration, he pulled aside his collar to reveal the top of his chest. His left pectoral was marred with a multitude of cuts, criss-crossing each other in such a haphazard way that you’d probably not think anything more about it. They didn’t even appear too deep to warrant worrying about severe blood loss. It was just where they happened to be positioned that caused you a second glance.

“Dean... what happened to you tattoo?”

That’s when he raised his head, smile crinkling the corners of his eyes as he rose off his hackles to face you. And from the inch of distance between your face and his, there was no mistaking the fact that those iridescent eyes were now the most soul-sucking shade of black imaginable.

“Oh, darlin’, you’re about to find out.”


	2. Chapter 2

You instinctively flinched away from those eyes as they glittered menacingly at you in the darkness. Trying to pull at those unrelenting chains, you whispered “...Dean?”

“Sorry bub, but the part of ‘Dean’ appears to have been recast” it smiled back. Not one of Dean’s rare, light up the room smiles; this one was as cold and soulless as the creature that now inhabited him.

“And the critics like it so much, he’s here to stay!”

Your heart lurched into your throat; whether at its words, no longer a deep southern drawl but a European twang with a snake-like edge to it, or at the unearthly knife it just produced from behind its back, you weren’t sure. Swallowing, you tried to keep your voice firm, hold back the tide of emotion as it rose like bile from the pit of your stomach – if it burst forth, the demon would win.

“He’s... gone?”

“No, no, no, I wouldn’t want him to miss the show!” It got even closer, just to make sure you were paying attention. It tilted his head in intrigue, watching to see what its words would do to you.

"Oh, your Dean, he's scrabbling around up there" Those hideous eyes were inches from yours, the putrid stench of rotten eggs wafting across your face. A finger tapped menacingly on the side of his temple. 

"He remembers this blade." He ran the cold steel teasingly down your cheek. 

“He knows what it can do. Remembers its bite, its keen edge, its sting" The hairs breath between steel and skin closed as you felt warm blood trickling down to your chin. 

"And he's screaming! Oh, how he screams for you!" The demon threw Dean's head back in ecstasy, writhing in the perverse thrill that came from making Dean suffer in this way. Closing your eyes in disgust, you willed, prayed, begged your big brother to stop struggling, to just submit and let the demon take over completely. Blank out so that he wouldn't have to watch you suffer at his own hand. But he wouldn't. He's a stubborn jackass and you knew he wouldn't. He'd fight that demon to the end, and then some, if it meant keeping you safe. You felt that putrid breath tickle your ear, and tried to focus on smelling the undertones of whisky and leather that still lingered as it whispered. 

"Now, you're gonna scream for him too."

And God, you tried. You tried to hold back the tears, the yells of anguish as it proceeded to slowly carve its way through your flesh – not enough, _never enough_ , to kill you – but somewhere down the line it was ripped from your lungs like a tide. Every stab, every draw of the knife was like lightning through your veins; white hot. Agonising. An unstoppable force you tried to ride out as it smashed your consciousness into obscurity over and over and over again.

You couldn’t tell if you’d been there weeks, months, days or hours. It like a timeless, never-ending cycle; endless, inscrutable pain, blackout, re-awaken, continue. You remember at one point, after coming round yet again to find him – _it_ – leaning oh so casually up against one of the pillars, slowly cleaning off the sticky red residue from the blade.

“Got tired already? Thought you demons had more stamina than that” you spat at him, flecks of blood flying into the dark abyss between you. Tilting his head, he – it, _it!_ – smiled that cold, shit eating smile before answering.

“Oh, just waiting for act two, dear.” Satisfied the knife was to his liking, he flipped it into the air, catching it with practiced ease as he stalked back towards you.

“Playing is no fun when the puppy is down.”

Every time, you prayed would be the last. Sometimes you wished you’d wake to see green eyes instead of black, warm hands holding you in the dark, telling you everything was going to be ok. Other times you hoped you’d never see them again, that he’d just give up and end it all so at least one of you may then find some peace. Once or twice you even imagined long hair and a trench coat busting down the door, charging in all guns blazing like some wild, Disney-esque prince riding in to save the day.

_‘Honey, this is the 21st century’_ you could hear your mother say. _Fuck, hallucinations already? I must be in for some severe blood loss right about now._ You could feel your eyes, drowsy and unfocused, fighting to pull you under once again as demon-boy sank his blade into your numbing body.

_‘You gotta switch up the rulebook here! What’s the point waitin’ for Prince Charming to come, when you can damn well rescue yourself. Save the day? Save your own damn day! Don’t go waitin’ for no boy to do it for ya!’_

And through the darkness, clarity struck. Whether it was a physical or mental thing you couldn’t tell, but by the confusion dawning over Dean’s devilled face you knew you only had moments to do it before he stuck that blood-drenched monstrosity somewhere irreversible. 

“Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, et secta diabolica...”

You trained all your remaining strength and consciousness into uttering those ancient words. As your eyes dipped in and out of focus, you could see pure anger and venom radiating from your torturers form as he tried to edge closer, beginning to reel from the bucking meat suit.

“...Ergo draco maledicte et sectio...”

It fell to its knees, the puddle of your blood starting to seep through the worn knees of Dean’s jeans. It battled to keep itself inside Dean’s body as you fought to stay awake in yours.

“...Ergo draco maledicte et legio secta diabolica...”

The edges of your vision were laced with black. The knife clattered to the floor as the demon choked back its own smoky being, tendrils wafting out from between Dean’s paling lips as your own breath diminished from yours. With a final, painful draw of breath, you managed to whisper...

“...Ut Ecclésiam tuam secúra tibi fácias servire libertáte, te rogámus, audi nos.”

Dean’s head flew backwards as a tower of black smoke rocketed from his mouth. You couldn’t tell if it was that or your own unconsciousness eating away at the final dregs of your sight, but either way, you were too spent to care. You’d done it. The demon was gone. Dean was free. 

And with sulphur clouding your nostrils, and the sound of a breaking door as your death knell, you hoped that whatever happened to him now, he was at peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delayed upload my darlings! Thank you for all your lovely comments with chapter 1, they literally made me squeee with love and I think at one point I cried a little bit :) Was so nervous uploading this chapter, but I hope y'all enjoy it! *please don't shoot me*
> 
> As always comments are appreciated! <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My darlings, please forgive me for the sizable gap between this chapter and the last! My laptop had a bit of a malfunction and decided to lose several bits of my work, including the following chapters to _Dark Inside_! So I've had to do some major rewriting. Fingers crossed it is somewhat worth the wait. Thank you all for being patient  <3

Feeling your eyes open wasn’t really a sensation that you’d expected to experience again. At least, not without feeling white hot flames lick your skin, or the sound of screams echoing in the dark around you. _Well, it is dark in here. Maybe the torture starts with letting me think I’m ok?_ Groaning with the effort, you tried to haul the lead weight that was your body into a more upright position. From your slightly heightened viewpoint you could just make out a body draped across one of your legs; you froze, heart suddenly in your throat, waiting for it to turn over and reveal liquid black eyes, a knife, _let the torture begin..._

Until your brain kicked into gear. The hair you could see was more dark brown than sandy blonde, and worn waaaay too long to be construed tasteful in the eyes of your pie-loving oldest brother. Sammy, bless his heart, looked as exhausted as you felt; hair wild and unkempt (yet somehow still looked stylish – _what was this sorcery?_ ), some serious 5 o’clock shadow developing across his chin, bruise-looking bags under his eyes. Which were now open. And looking straight at you.

“(Y/N)!” he cried, nearly sending himself flying in his attempts to disengage from the bit of duvet he’d half snuggled under. His clumsiness always made you laugh, though at this moment laughter appeared to send shooting pains up through your abdomen. Hissing, you fell back into the comfort of the pillows behind you.

“Oh shit, sorry! Did I hurt you?” His face was lined with worry, big doe eyes full of concern as they raked over you, trying to ascertain where the pain was coming from. Too afraid to get closer in case he did it again, but desperate to make sure you were ok.

“Sam-” your voice croaked to a stop. It felt like shards of glass made up the lining of your throat. Swallowing, coughing, you tried again.

“Sammy, it’s ok, it wasn’t you. Laughing hurts, that’s all” _That, and everything else._ Whatever medication you’d been on was obviously beginning to wear off, if the slow burn of pain radiating across your body was anything to go by. Your face must’ve been letting on more than you implied, as he pulled a surgical looking needle and stuck it in the crook of your arm.

“Ahhhh, I must be in bad shape; that feels like the good stuff” you joked hoarsely, as the burn subsided. It felt like you were being enveloped in a big blanket of warm. Sam tried to smile at your non-joke. Instead, he sat back down beside you, gently holding your hand in his big old paws. 

“So, what did I miss?”

“About four days. We got you guys out of the dungeon just after you exorcised Dean. He was ok, for the most part. Physically, I mean. But you... We thought we’d lost you, (Y/N).” He bit his lip, trying to hold back the tears. You gripped his hand tight. Voice shaky, he ploughed on through.

“There was so much blood, we didn’t know where it was coming from. And Cas didn’t have enough angel juice to heal you properly. Course the thing that took you guys couldn’t hold you somewhere closer to a hospital...” His body shook with false laughter. The morphine was trying to drag you under, but you held fast. You needed to be here for Sammy. _God knows he was there when I needed him. Eventually._

“Lucky the bunker has a small supply of blood bags, so we could get some back in you when we got here. Stitched you up best as we could. But you weren’t waking up, and we thought... Well, Cas and I took turns looking after you. In case you did.” _Did what? Die, or wake up?_ But you didn’t ask. Partly because you didn’t think Sam would be able to answer, mostly because you were slowly drifting, and you weren’t sure your mouth could form the words.

Sam seemed to notice, and gently stroked your cheek to help send you off. Before you let it drag you under completely, you had to ask something.

“Sammy, wha’bout Dean? ‘S he ok?” 

He didn’t answer.

***

Recovery was slow going. So slow that after a while, it was beginning to piss you off. The pain you could deal with. God knows you’d had your fair share of scrapes, bruises and stab wounds in the past – ok, maybe not at the same time, and generally, not at this quantity – but physical pain, at the very least, could be handled with a handful of tablets and a swig of whiskey. You’d managed to be up and wandering about the bunker after a week, although slowly, and without being able to reach for anything. You hated having to ask for help for every little thing, but luckily Cas, despite his lack of social skills, had become quite efficient in noticing when you wanted something grabbed from a shelf or tall bookcase. _Curse those boys for being freakishly tall!_

But the part you were struggling with was the nightmares; at first, you thought it was a onetime thing, something that would go away as the sun rose, and normal sleeping patterns would resume the following night. But not these bad boys. Turns out, these nightmares liked to come back harder, better, faster, stronger, leaving you screaming into the night, visions of black eyes and blood dancing through your mind as sweat drenched your body. The first few times it happened, Sam and Cas had busted down your door, guns armed and ready to fire before realising the threat couldn't be taken out with live ammunition. 

_Unless they fancied firing one into my head... no, no! Stop thinking like that!_

After a while, they took it in turns to rock you back to sleep, stroking your hair as you wept into their flannel or trench coat clad shoulders. At first, it helped, it really did, having someone there to tell you it was going to be ok, that they were just dreams, they wouldn’t hurt you. But then you noticed the bags growing under their eyes, the sleep-addled gait they walked with the next morning, and the guilt began to set in. After a few weeks you'd learnt to direct your screams into a pillow, and they stopped coming in to calm you down. You missed their presence, and yes it did take longer for you to drift back to sleep (if indeed you managed to at all) but at least the pit in your stomach had stopped gnawing. _Just cos my sleeps disturbed doesn't mean theirs has to be._

The only person missing from these midnight rendezvous had been Dean; simultaneously the last and only person you wanted to see right now. And didn't you feel like the shittest little sister in the world for thinking that.

It got so bad that it was beginning to feel like the nightmares were threatening to infiltrate your daytime hours too. Every move you made, every action or word that crossed your lips was made with caution and apprehension, for fear it would trigger something in your head to make the dreams visible during the daylight. It may have made you look and act like a real life zombie, but if it stopped the boys from noticing what a complete state you were in the inside, then it suited you just fine.

It also meant that you spent most of your time actively avoiding Dean, which nearly tore your heart apart every single day. _If it means he doesn't have to see me like this, then fine._ You downright hated having to do it, but you couldn’t bear the idea of what might happen if you looked at him wrong, if you thought those eyes were slightly too dark... So you distanced yourself. For his sake, and your sanity. 

Still, you knew exactly what he was doing - blaming himself for the entire sodding event having ever happened. You weren't sure of exactly how much of the dungeon torture fun-times he remembered (partly because you couldn't bear knowing, mainly because the two of you were never in the same room long enough to ask) but he was definitely aware of what 'he' had done to you. It didn't matter how many times you’d overheard Sammy and Cas tell him otherwise, he was full on taking the blame for every cut, stitch and bruise that now ravaged your body.

“She can’t stand to be in the same room as me, Sammy! Can you blame her? Every time I see her... see what I did to her...” 

“For the last time, Dean, it wasn’t you!”

“I don’t care! Sam, the guilt... its eating me up from the inside. Can you imagine what she must think when she sees me now? I’m her big brother, it’s my job to protect her, and now...”

You’d stopped listening at the point his voice broke. His words were killing you. _I can’t keep this up forever._ You loved your family so much it hurt – it was little, and broken, but still yours - but if you couldn’t control the toxic mess running around your head, you’d lose them forever. As you slipped back down the corridor, tears dripping onto the carpet below, you made yourself a promise. _As of tomorrow, I’m gonna make this right. For Dean’s sake, I have to at least try._

_I can’t let the demon win._


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning! Triggers Ahead! This chapter includes descriptions of panic attacks and anxiety.

_Ok, you can do this. Baby steps, that’s the key. For Dean, do it for Dean..._

Steeling yourself, you took a deep breath, and stepped into the kitchen. Sam was already at the table, leaning back in his chair, newspapers in hand as he scanned them for disturbances in the force. Cas was at the fridge, a glass of something yellow in his hands that he was staring mistrustfully at – clearly, his experiences with orange juice hadn't improved since the day you got him to drink some after he’d cleaned his teeth. It all looked so normal that for a second you questioned whether your fears had been based on some freaky dream you’d had.

“Hey, morning (Y/N)!” An easy, almost sleepy smile broke out on Sam’s face as he looked up from his papers to face you. Clearly someone’s had a better nights rest. Even the bags under Cas’s eyes looked distinctly less dark than before; it helped ease the guilt you had for keeping things hidden from them.

And there was Dean, who’d been cooking up a storm of bacon and beans. He turned on hearing your name, and for a moment he just gawped at you; like you’d disappear from sight if he so much as blinked. God you’d missed him. But you still held your arms around your stomach as if to anchor yourself to the kitchen floor. _Deep breaths. You can do this. It’s just Dean. See, green eyes, not black. Definitely not black..._

“(Y/N)!” he whispered, snapping you out of your reverie. He couldn't believe you were sharing the same air as him, let alone the room. The shadow of a smile ghosted around his mouth as he made a move towards you, arms beginning to stretch out as if to hug you.

_No no no, too fast, too fast!_

Instinctively, you flinched away from the oncoming physical contact. His smile faltered as he stopped, arms flopping forlornly at his sides. Watching warily, you could just spot his jaw set square as his Adams apple bobbed like crazy, trying to force down whatever retched emotional response was threatening to turn this into a serious chick-flick moment.

And all you wanted to do, what you’d give anything to be able to do, was reach out, hold him, tell him it was all gonna be ok. But you couldn't risk touching him. The fear of those nightmares resurfacing was just too great. Already you could feel them pushing at the barriers of your consciousness even now, like black ooze battling against a broken dam.

Instead, you plastered on the most relaxing smile you could muster to try to ease the tension in the room, and gingerly lowered yourself into your seat at the table. Dean, to his credit, just nodded, turned back to the bacon, and chose to ignore the awkwardness of the situation. Sam breathed an audible sigh of relief.

“So…” he muttered, after a pause “… sleep better last night?”

“Oh, yeah, sure! Best night’s sleep ever!” Even to your ears that was overly perky. Trying to avoid the skeptical looks coming from Sam and Cas’ direction, you stretched out your arms in earnest, yawning widely (to cover the real, ‘ _I've had 1 hours kip, max’_ yawn threatening to burst out) and for all the world trying to make out like you and sleep were the best of friends. The boys, in turn, couldn't bring themselves to rock the boat so early in the morning, and so settled for silently nodding as the conversation visibly tumble weeded out of existence.

The tension it left was so palpable it seemed to chill the air. Dropping the act, you curled in on yourself, holding your arms close and regretting not putting on a jumper this morning. Dean had, at some point, begun dishing out the food, whilst Sam and Cas had gone back to doing what they were before you showed up. Shame even this ‘normal’ routine felt like they were walking on the proverbial eggshells around you.

_Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all…_

“You cold?” Having been locked in your head for so long, you hadn't realised that Dean had made his way round to you. Startled by the sudden physical closeness, you looked down at yourself and noticed that you’d been subconsciously rubbing at your arms; more out of comfort than anything else. Still, he’d put two and two together, come up with five, and was beginning to shrug off his outer layer of clothing. 

“Here, take my jacket...”

_Shit, no no no no no!_

“Dean, it’s fine, really!” you smiled up in earnest, hands held out to try and ward off his impending advances. 

But despite your best efforts (and a barked warning from Sam) he was determined to try to make you feel better. In those last few seconds you tried to steel your resolve against the inevitable contact you were about to receive. Having come so far, you could not screw it up now.

_Breathe, breathe, it’ll be ok, it’s just a jacket, I’ll be fine, breathe..._

But it wasn't him putting it on you that was the problem. It was the smell. You hadn't prepared for the smell. Because that particular jacket was the same one he’d been wearing that day in the dungeon. As he laid it across your shoulders, you got a waft of the familiar oil, whiskey and leather...

And eggs. Rotten, putrid, sulfuric eggs.

Memories slammed into your brain as the panic took root in your chest. You didn't even realise you’d left the table till you tripped backwards over the chair and landed against the cupboards behind you. You didn't know what was happening. It was like the air had suddenly become too thick to go down your throat. It left you gasping. The panic was drowning you, the air left you to suffocate, the jacket was tangled around you and your brain was just screaming. _Getitoffmegetitoffmegetitoffme!_

The jacket was flung from your shoulders; by what, you neither knew nor cared. Your vision tunneled; trained on the jacket like it were a deadly snake ready to strike. Visions of blood and black eyes danced around your head. Breathing more desperate. Heart pounding in your ears. Clawing for purchase on the cold tiled floor, you could feel yourself sinking into madness as the world became stifled and faded from view.

“(Y/N)! (Y/N) look at me!”

A voice penetrated through the muffled void. You could feel your head being turned to face two round, alarmingly blue eyes. The vice in your chest squeezed. Those eyes became the only things to see as the lack of oxygen took more of your sight.

“It’s OK, (Y/N). The jacket’s gone. It can’t hurt you.” That voice was low, gruff but soothing. _Where's it coming from?_ God you wanted to believe it.

“You've gotta breathe, (Y/N). Follow me, ok? Deep breath in, then out, in, and out...” Your gaze lowered. There appeared to be lips under the eyes. They were forming words your starving brain couldn't grasp, but with every word that escaped them came a smell.

Orange juice. And spearmint toothpaste.

The vice, tentatively, began to loosen. Focusing on the air being drawn in and let go by the lips, you tried your damnedest to match them breath for breath. Slowly, agonisingly slowly, you felt yourself coming back to the world. The air swooshing into your lungs felt thick, but the good kind of thick, like the first drink of water in a hot barren desert. The lips and eyes were joined by a nose, disheveled dark brown hair and a deep red hoodie before your brain twigged that it was Cas who was pulling you out of this. The kitchen, now a disarray of broken chairs and upturned breakfast, but otherwise empty, briefly swam into view before he pulled you into his chest, gently stroking your hair as your tears soaked his shirt. 

You could sort of hear Sam come back, saying something to Cas, but right now you didn't care. Your body, sagging into Cas’s, was weary to the bone despite the merry-go-round going on in your head. What you wouldn't give just to let sleep take you; maybe _then_ your brain would _shut up for five seconds_. And not try to remind you that Sam must have, at some point, wrestled Dean out of the room. But not soon enough. _He saw everything._

“It’s ok.” Cas whispered as he held you close. “It’s going to be ok.”


	5. Chapter 5

You found Dean sometime later, outside the Bunker, sitting on the hood of the Impala. Despite the fact the autumn wind had pitched the temperature down to 40 degrees, he'd decided that a Henley, jeans and his biker boots would be sensible attire for this time of night... or should that be morning?

_Dumbass._

Watching him from the shadows of the doorway, you took a moment to work out how you were going to approach the forth coming conversation. In an ideal world, you'd go charging in and dispense with any of the awkward silences (not unlike your preferred hunting style) but knowing your brother, that was a one-way ticket to him clamming up and you getting nothing but stubborn silence.

A breath of wind picked up, swiping the train from your thoughts and the warmth from your body. No matter how close you pulled your (aka Sams) hoodie around you, the goose bumps still ran circles across your skin. Dean, however, looked as if he were experiencing a pleasant summer evening in California, not mid-October in Kansas. 

_Ok, I'm sorry, but how is he not freezing his balls off right now?_

The answer became clear not a few moments later; judging from the embers glowing between his fingers, he'd broken into that 'secret' stash of cigarettes that had been rolling around the glove compartment.

"Those things'll kill you if your not careful."

He jumped, startled at the sound of your voice. His keen hunter senses obviously weren't up to full capacity this early in the morning. Either that, or the whiskey he'd secreted in his other hand might have had something to do with it. Still, it took him a moment or two to locate you in the dark. When his eyes did finally lock with yours, they were filled with a horrible mix of concern, hope and... fear?

At least, till the mask of composure slipped back into place.

"Dammit (Y/N) don't sneak up on me like that! Nearly gave me a frickin' heart attack..."

You let him grumble for a while, catching snatches of 'fricking ghost' and 'worse than Cas' as you slowly closed the gap between the two of you. Your arms tightened around your middle as he got nearer, but you refused to let it stop you. _This time._ Well, at least till Dean had stopped muttering, looked up and noticed you were now by the edge of Baby's bonnet. Then you faltered. Slightly. He swallowed.

"What you doing out here, kiddo? It's freezing. Plus, it's like... wow, ok it's five in the morning."

"I'm aware of these facts, _Daaad_ " you smirked weakly, hoping it would break the ice slightly. It didn't work. So you settled with slowly sliding onto the hood of the Impala.

"I came looking for you."

"Well, you found me." Hunched forward, he thumbed the rim of his glass as you settled beside him. He tensed, making sure to keep any part of his body, _his clothing_ , from touching you again.

That hurt your heart a little bit.

Not quite sure what to say next, you stared off down the drive a bit. The dying glow of Dean's cigarette caught your eye, and you watched it fade out of existence. Until...

"How's it going, (Y/N)? After, you know... earlier?"

You snapped your head around to face him, in disbelief that a) he was starting a conversation with you, and b) HE started the conversation. About this, of all things. His head may have been defiantly not facing yours, but you could see his eyes darting sideways to gage your response. So, with a deep breath, you responded.

"I'm... better, thanks. Not, like, totally better, cos physically, you know, Cas couldn't fix me up completely, so some of the cuts hurt like billio, and mentally, well, I wish I was holed up in my room to avoid the world but..." You were rambling. Badly. _Wrap it up (Y/N)!_

“... I’m alive. And somewhat functioning. How are you, Dean?”

“Me?!” The mask slipped off briefly as he turned to face you, eyes widened in shock, before the shutters came crashing down again.

“You know me (Y/N), I’m peachy-keen” He downed the last of his whiskey.

You had to hand it to your brother, he had one hell of a poker face. If you didn't know him any better, you might genuinely believe he was ok.

Shame he also had one hell of a tell.

“Come off it Dean, don’t lie to me. You only drink like a fish when the guilt is eating at you.”

“Hey, I resent that! I drink all the time!”

“True, but not...” Bending slightly, you grasped around to find the neck of the bottle you knew was lurking next to Baby’s rims.  
“... Glen McKenna. And certainly not at five in the morning. Well, usually, anyway.”

Knowing he had no comeback to this, Dean settled for staring sullenly into the pits of his glass. Bugging him for answers wasn't going to make him speak any sooner than he wanted to, so you busied yourself with studying the liquor’s label. _Wow, ’75 year. What’d he do, raid Crowley’s drinks cabinet for this?_

“I failed ok!”

The outburst was so unexpected you nearly sent the bottle flying. You watched as your brother tried to stem the tidal wave of emotion that had obviously been building inside him for a while; no matter how many times he scrubbed his hand over his face, his eyes remained stubbornly wet.

“It’s my job to protect you, you and Sammy, that’s the number one rule! Like Dad didn't drill that into my head years ago. Then one demon gets in and it, he, I...” God, you wanted to stop him there and then, stop the words pouring out, hold him and tell him _it wasn't you, it was NEVER you_. But you had to let him finish.

“...I couldn't stop it. Then I thought maybe, maybe you’d be safer if I stayed away. And I couldn't even do that right! So I failed _again!_ What sort of brother am I if I can’t even protect you properly?”

“Dean, you’re the best fucking brother anyone could ask for! You protect me and Sam every single day just by being there! How the hell were you supposed to know the son of a bitch could cut off your tattoo and get in?”

You hadn't realised one of your hands was gripping his arm until your tirade had ended. Halting, you pushed back desperately at the darkness edging your brain, daring you to run screaming from the physical contact. _What’re you doing idjit? Don’t you remember those arms, those hands cutting you, slicing you, the pain the blood..._

But Dean was looking at you, watching you, eyes bright and full of wonder as his mouth gaped in disbelief. You were touching him. For the first time in god knows how long. And those eyes were not the eyes of someone who would hurt you.

“You know what kept me going in there?” you whispered, eyes locked on his, needing him to believe every word you were about to say. He shook his head slowly.

“My mum. She once told me that I have to save myself, that I couldn't wait for some knight in shining armour to come do it for me.”

“Sounds like a smart woman.”

“She was. And I know that Cas may look cute in a set of shiny doublets and some chain-mail...” To your surprise, Dean chuckled at that mental imagery. It felt like a lifetime ago since you last heard your big brother laugh, and it made your heart soar.

“... but I think we both need to take her advice.”

A smile quirked at the corner of his mouth.

“(Y/N), never for one moment did I think you couldn't look after yourself; I've seen you fight monsters on the daily – hell, I've even seen you kick Sam’s ass!” Dean gently started to place a calloused hand on yours. You flinched. He quickly pulled it away. _It’s okay it’s okay it’s okay._

“But you don’t have to do this alone, kiddo.” He continued, determined not to let your reaction bother him. _Thank you._

“Even I can tell your noodle got messed with down in that basement. That’s not something _anyone_ should have to fight on their own. And I refuse to let you. So, talk to me.”

You steeled every ounce of yourself against the evil blackness pounding on the peripheries of your mental well-being. _This is it. I can DO THIS!_

“It just feels like, my head, my brain...” you faltered, choking. Dean patiently waited for you to regroup and start again.

“It’s like my head is full of smog. Like it’s all dark inside and I can’t let it out. I can push it aside and act like me for a while, but it’s always there, whispering my deepest, darkest thoughts, my fears, my worst nightmares. And no matter what I do it always, always comes back with a vengeance.” You stopped, panting with the exertion you hadn't realised you needed to let it all out. 

Dean half smirked, half laughed under his breath – the awful kind of laugh of someone who could relate.

“Funny?”

“No... familiar. Maybe it’s a demon thing, that feeling. Physical or mental, demons, at the end of the day, are all the same. That’s why I spend my life fighting them.” He glanced at you sideways and gently, ever so gently, bumped a shoulder into yours.

“Fancy fighting them with me?”

Despite everything you’d both gone through recently, deep down in your gut you knew you could once again believe in the safety and security that he radiated. More than you feared the visions in your head.

Perhaps that’s why the arm that remained wrapped around your waist finally released its vice like grip. And had the courage to hold out a badly folded bundle out to him.

“Fancy starting now?”

Even though the early morning breeze was doing a good job at keeping the smell at bay, you were quite thankful that Dean slipped the jacket from your hand as soon as he did; you could handle the touch of it better than the odour, but it still skeeved you out a bit. Staring down at the leather, you could see him weighing the choice in his mind. It was his favourite jacket after all, and his Dad’s at that. That wasn't something you could just let go of lightly.

Still, jaw set in determination, he jumped down from the bonnet of the Impala. Trudging a short distance in front of you, he let it drop to the ground, kicking up a cloud of dust as it did so. The last few inches of whiskey follow unceremoniously. Then, with the flame glittering in his eyes, he dropped his lighter on top, letting the fire envelop the jacket as he strode back over to you.

You both watched the jacket’s funeral pyre in silence. A weird sense of relief came over you as it burnt to a crisp; you had a long, arduous road to recovery ahead of you. But at least now, it felt like you were now on your way. 

“By the way?” A small smile broke out on your face. “Dibs on ganking that son of a bitch.”

“Let me get a few punches in first, then he’s all yours.”

He started to hold an arm out round your shoulders before halting.

“Can I... is it ok to...?”

You froze for a second, letting the request sink in. _I can do this._

“Sure.”

And for the first time in a long, long time, Dean Winchester was able to hug you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaaaaaaand we're finished!! Le Fin, and all that jazz!!
> 
> Massive love and big squidges to everyone whose read, commented and kudos this work, you've brought big smiles to me every day! Not once did I think when I started this as a one shot that anyone would read it, let alone like it, so THANK YOU <3<3<3
> 
> I truly hope you all enjoyed this last chapter (extra long for making you wait), so as always, comment and kudos, let me know what you think!
> 
> And if anyone fancies coming and saying hi to me (or has an SPN fic request!) I'll be waiting at www.oooheslimandalittlebitfoxy.tumblr.com xxx

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading my dears! There will be more chapters added soon, so any and all feedback and comments would be greatly appreciated <3


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